A Good Man
by hdkwj
Summary: I will not be the first to say it: I suck at summaries. A few months after the end of Metro:Last Light, Pavel and Artyom have become friends once again...and as they overcome their pasts together, they just might become something a little more. Has spoilers about plot. Rating just might-might!-go up. If you have any suggestions for a new title, please feel free to share.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Never thought I'd put a story as hurt/comfurt...how far I've come. This is Pavel/Artyom. Couldn't figure up a name for the pairing, and I don't think it'd be pretty. CONTAINS SPOILERS, SPOLIERS! SPOILERS! Somehow bold is not as dramatic as it once was. The caps aren't helping. Anyway, it spoils things. So, yeah. It takes some place after the supposed "good ending." Probably only a few months. Maybe even weeks. It's not set in stone, you know? At the end of the chapter, I'll further spoil some things, because I don't want to spoil anything in the opening notes...read on.**

"I have dreams about them sometimes," muttered Artyom. He wet his lips, swallowed at his dry throat. He still felt half-asleep, the echoes of imagined screams in his ears. The fabric of his light coat shushed when he brought up a hand, raking carefully through the strands at his forehead, plastered with sweat. In a fit of discomfiture, he twisted onto his side, and Pavel did likewise. Despite the slow and precise movement, his fingers trembled. In a distant whisper, he clarified, with shame: "the Dark Ones," even though there could be no confusion.

Pavel shifted a few inches away in a separate cot, reaching around with fumbling fingers for his lighter. He followed the brief modicum of light between them to set the little lantern ablaze; Artyom brought up a hand to shield his eyes, the irises glinting a clouded jade before he obscured them. He watched the other for a moment, thoughts lucid: he had been unable to sleep, had lain awake as Artyom tossed and turned.

"You regret what you did." It was not a question, of course, but a statement. Pavel blew a little on the lantern, calming the flames to meek embers and pale illumination. Artyom brought his hand down weakly, and Pavel took the opportunity to look at him, at his eyes. Artyom looked down and away before he finally met them; the insipid blue seemed to Artyom the calming color of a sky, which flickered dimly in his barest memories, his dreams—though he could hardly recall the color. But Pavel understood regret, mourning his own decisions even as he fought to justify them to himself, and the blue was in turmoil. He felt burdened with guilt—even as Artyom forgave him.

They shared something in terms of independent emotion—while Pavel had betrayed someone he now felt penitent to call friend, Artyom had acted in fear and decimated a population. They both had done what they thought moral, in aims to fulfill what they believed in, even as it hurt them, as it hurt others. Similarly, both had been forgiven—and neither felt entirely cured of guilt. Especially not in the blackness of the tunnels, the stations, when the lights were routinely turned off.

Could they see the upturn of a Dark Ones' cheek, there in the shadows? Or a hint of resentment on another's face? So much could be unclear and distorted. And the dreams! In the scarce years of his life before the metro, much as his memory lacked, Pavel would say he had not been as prone to dreaming, or as…creative.

Artyom sighed, but the noise melded into a yawn. His eyelids felt heavy, and the black of his eyelashes fluttered in fatigue as he struggled to stay awake. He didn't want to sleep. Nearly inaudible, he murmured, "You know how it went…they aided me, secured my life, in light of the fact I had aimed for genocide—nearly scorched them from the earth." He wanted to look away from Pavel, could feel the weight of exhaustion on his own slim frame, but Pavel's eyes refused rebuff. "I knew before it was done, as I carried out my orders—what I had felt was _right_—but it occurred to me gradually that I was wrong. I thought for a moment on that tower I could correct my mistake, but I would not act on it. I could've stopped it then if I just—"

"You know what happened can't change," Pavel soothed and, for a mere moment, he almost added, in a spur of nostalgia, _d'Artagnan,_ but he caught himself, concealed the nickname on his tongue. "Artyom," he finished, voice low and emptied of thoughts, which concentrated elsewhere. He shook his head to clear it, and began again. "But you aren't a bad man. You're—" He wasn't sure what to say, how to explain exactly what he wanted to say, what he wanted to do to make Artyom feel better. "You're _good," _he stressed, he tried to convince.

An unwitting smile came thinly to the other's face. "The Dark One said that as well." He blinked rapidly and rubbed wearily at his face. His eyes were wet. The smile fell into a terrible, remorseful grimace as his eyes burned. Artyom had cried before, though increasingly less often as he grew—the same could be said of anyone—and though he tried to still the tears, dry them before they escaped the rim of his eyelids, he couldn't, and blinked, unspeaking, as they trailed across the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones, drawn unconventionally by gravity. He turned away, onto his back, his throat closed up and brimmed with the same painful quiet, and he let in a shuddering breath, the sort of gasping cry that a child would make, which he muffled quickly. The breath escaped harshly.

Pavel felt something heave sharply at his chest, and the air left him. He reached over, shaking his head impulsively, laying a hand on his—his _friend's_ arm. He realized he was speaking, however automatically. His lips spilled comfort, understanding, reassurances, talking himself in circles. The things he said, he hardly heard them; they could be called stupidity, lies, or optimism. But they felt right, and Pavel wanted to say them, though he would never consider himself a sympathetic man; he'd always seen the man in the broken and dusted mirrors as callous and insensitive, cruel at times and terrible otherwise.

He'd never considered himself a sympathetic crier, either, but he could feel that soreness behind his eyes before its product manifested itself. Pavel pulled tighter at Artyom's sleeve in silence, as though he were a desperate creature tugging at the coat of its savior while he trudged away. "I'm—" Pavel almost stopped himself, heard the odd note of stifled emotion in his voice, a warning sign, but it all rushed forward in his next ragged word, like a dam overcome with water: "—_sorry."_

The words surmounted Artyom with grief—Pavel did not have to apologize to him, not for anything he had done—and he clasped Pavel's arm in return to communicate his acceptance, unable to trust in his ability to speak properly. He knew his voice would wobble and shake, that the syllables would collapse into stutters, especially in a bare whisper, as they had in the past.

Instead, he calmed himself with deep breaths, shutting his eyes. A newfound exhaustion twined itself warmly through his head, the skin of Pavel's bare arm beneath his palm, the sound of Pavel's own emotions in the air, as the fire dwindled to a pitiful ember between them.

When darkness finally enfolded them in its sable embrace, it found the two asleep.

**A/N: So, seeing as you've gotten this far, I'll spill the real kidney beans. Anna didn't really seem like much of a love interest, did she? I saw their relationship as empty, a little more based on primal urges. In this story, seeing as it wasn't shown at the end, Anna didn't get pregnant...didn't have a kid...wow, I'm so glad I jumped over that roadblock. Anyway, maybe my love of Pavel blinded me. If you (my nonexistant audience) have any questions, I'll answer them at the next junction...please review if you feel the inspiration. (I think underlining is more visually engaging.)**

**And jeez, this is really emotional and fluffy, I am terrible at emotions...even when they are genuine...I actually cried a bit when Pavel was leading Artyom to Lesnitsky and stuff, after he'd drugged him. Seriously, it's just a video game, and it wasn't an especially heartwrenching scene...but I was a little sad.**

**Um...yeah, review. At your leisure.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This one includes Danila. If you don't recall the character, he was in Chapter 5 of Metro 2033, the Great Library. I think that's the only chapter where you see him. **

The next day came without dreams, without preamble. There was no sunlight to coax the night into day; rather, Artyom woke out of habit and perhaps, in part, due to the commotion outside of the little room. There were others who filled the adjacent quarters, while Pavel and Artyom, the remainders, had been delegated to a room no larger than a medium closet, he imagined, which it may well have been in a past life—just big enough to fit the two of them with a little extra space to breathe. In a way, it was planned, as the rooms had been allocated: Pavel was under Artyom's supervision, according to Miller. If not, it was a healthy coincidence.

Though he felt the whispers of sleep pulling at his consciousness, Artyom heard the murmurs of conversation, the calls to get ready, and realized someone would come bursting in soon to wake them up. He took the moment of peace to stretch his arms overhead, rolling his shoulders. The plush cot was not as harsh as sleeping on the bare concrete would've been, and for that, he felt grateful. But it certainly wasn't his home, his bed that he had been sleeping in. It seemed he spent so little time there, and it was with nostalgia he recalled Khan waking him up that morning not so long ago, Khan dropping from the vents and rescuing him on his first adventure through the Metro. He wondered where Khan was now.

He looked furtively at Pavel, if only to see if the man had awoken silently. The artificial light no doubt filling the station around them drifted underneath the door and cast the barest streaks of color onto Pavel's face, and he was certainly asleep; his eyes were closed, and his breaths came unhurriedly. His expression, from what Artyom could see of it, was perfectly calm. It softened the contours of his face and eased his scars. Artyom wondered if _he_ looked that content in his sleep.

Artyom thought of Ulman—dead, but preserved good-humored in his memories—and of Miller and his shrewd ways…and his daughter, Anna, with her cropped black hair and her intelligent blue eyes. The thought came unbidden: _like Pavel's, _a thought he felt slip away into his lethargy. He yawned tiredly into the palm of his hand, trying to mute the sound so as not to wake the man himself. He tapped at his eyelids, pinched at his arms, patted at his cheeks. Anything to clear his drowsy head. It had been a sleep longer than he was used to, but it did nothing to subside the fatigue that had built over the weeks, the months.

Anna, he thought again, picturing her in his head. She had been something of a psychotic woman when he first met her, and the memory was fresh, new. She'd called him "rabbit," demeaning him, wishing with a crude vigor in her eyes that she had seen the Dark Ones shrivel and die in their homes. It hadn't been the best first impression, to say the least, and he was sure the experience had been mutual, seeing as she'd sized him up instantly and found him lacking.

But Anna was lonely, motherless, and her father was reserved, often away. Miller for a father, Artyom could not imagine. She wanted affection, to be touched. Artyom, by coincidence or otherwise, had entered her sight, and things progressed from there, from that moment she was assigned to kill the Dark One to the scant meetings thereafter.

Prior to Anna, he'd been with only several women, choosing to stay at a distance. Contraception was scarce, of course, and he wasn't sure if he'd even be an appropriate father; his duties as a ranger called for frequent absences and high probability of death. Not much time could pass before he saw another sobbing woman, an orphaned child, or a team of rangers apologizing.

He was lucky enough that Anna did not become pregnant—it was an outcome he had thoughtlessly overlooked at the time—but Anna was…there was something about the way she _looked_ at him, those blue pools like headlights, showing him what it meant to be looked at, looked at more than any stepfather with his desk decorated in papers, more than any ranger with his sanity fraying. There was simply something about her eyes…was it respect? Affection?

But that was a weak foundation if there ever was one. Anna did not truly love him, though she was far from hating him, and it would be admitted, of course, that he felt similarly in return. She was strong and astute, acclimated to commands and results, and significantly less tied to emotion and people. Artyom was often lost in thought and, he believed, unfit for suitably following orders to such an acute degree.

Anna saw him as capable but separate from where she stood and excelled, where he did not perfectly belong; that was the key and fatal difference between them. They weren't entirely compatible. And when Artyom thought of Anna, there was a bit of regret. He wasn't sure if it was for what had happened between them, or what had not.

"You think too much," Pavel commented.

Artyom startled, looking quickly to the blinking Pavel. He sat up and stretched as Artyom had, massaging at his neck. For once, he looked embarrassed, guiding a hand over his shaved head and smiling sheepishly. The thought of the night previous made him want to say something—perhaps to clear the air, as the expression went. But Artyom's alert stare on him scattered all intelligent thought. After a pause, what he said in lieu of this was: "Did I sleep through someone waking us or what?"

"No," Artyom replied, and listened to the tumult around them. He cracked a smile. "But I suppose they might've forgotten about us."

Pavel began to reply, but was cut off when the door opened. "What luck," he claimed with a serious note, but his sarcastic words were overrun by the voice of authority. "Get up!" it said.

Thankfully, it was a familiar one: Danila, and he spoke in amusement. Artyom had heard from his stepfather, Alex, that the young ranger would be joining them on their official move to Polis as a sort of guide, seeing as he already lived at the famous station. However, Danila had met them halfway—he must have arrived some time in the night. The setup was not the most practical, and Alex said Miller was a strong advocate of this fact, but Danila himself had requested for the task.

The last the two had really seen of each other had been a year ago, in spite of them reporting to the same man, though they had received news of each other. Danila, climbing the Spartan ladder, and Artyom, with his usual escapades. Then, those months ago, the young Polis-born man had accompanied Artyom and Miller to the Great Library, but was swept up by a demon and injured in the fall. Even so, he appeared no less lively following his recovery.

Danila grinned his greeting. "Good morning!"

Artyom did likewise. "So you arrived. Good trip?"

"Nothing spectacular," he said with a shrug. "The worst of it was a few guards—did not like my passport, you see. They kept looking between me and the picture, trying to see if I was the same man beneath the dirt and uniform. As if I'd changed so much." He looked, in open curiosity and courtesy, at Pavel. "See we had a nice sleep, eh?"

"More than usual," he agreed steadily, getting to his feet. Their bags had been packed in anticipation of their morning departure, but he had, as always, taken off his gear for the night. Bending down, he swept up his vest and jacket, slipping easily into the material. He had been offered a set of armor by the Order, but he opted only for their guns and ammunition, as well as a shake flashlight. He said he would much prefer the handheld variety, rather than wearing a helmet with the light built in.

Artyom had only to put on his jacket. Long used to sleeping in uncomfortable armor and conditions, he had removed his holsters and assorted weapons, but had only taken off his long-sleeved jacket in regards to his clothes, which would surely have suffocated him sometime in the night. His desire to sleep had outweighed his desire to properly undress, and it _did_ have its advantages: he had been sufficiently guarded in his sleep, as a given, but he also did not have to struggle back into his clothes.

On another note, it was a good thing Danila stayed in the doorway; if he stepped any closer, there wouldn't have been any space for Pavel to move, much less dress. Then again, the distance Danila maintained was tailored to his interests, as he could easily study Pavel, whom he had not met before.

Clearly, however, he recognized him, if he had not already known. And how could he not? "Ah, and you are the famous Pavel Morozov?" The young ranger offered a hand innocuously.

"That is the one," he replied with a grin. Artyom noticed the nerves in it at the mention of his full name and the knowledge which had spread of him, though he took care to discard it as he shook the proffered hand. "And you must be Danila, yes? Artyom has spoken of you—all kind things, trust me."

"Ah, I should hope so. I saved his life once, you know!"

"I never heard of that," Pavel declared, looking to Artyom.

"That's right, Pavel. If not for Danila here, I would have spent my days trapped in the Library. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn't knocked down that door?" Artyom smiled at the embellishment. "Well," he said with a salute, "I trust Miller is his charming self? How have things been going?"

Danila waved off the salute modestly, but he still smiled with poorly hidden pride. He had risen in the ranks of both opinion and standing among the rangers over the course of the year, once seen as not incapable, but instead typical, in spite of Miller's general faith in his competence. When Ulman died, however, he had been promoted to commanding officer in his stead, and a young one at that. Of course, Miller never appreciated comedy very much, and, much as he treated the witty Ulman, he was no less hard on Danila, if not more so.

"You would not believe the difficulty, my friend," he admitted earnestly, but he let out a short laugh at the expression Artyom made. "No need to be concerned on my behalf! I am doing as fine as ever. And I have seen all the main attractions of the Metro through this work. I met some friends of yours, too. I went to Venice recently, and one woman remembered you fondly."

"What woman? I never met one in Venice." Artyom caught the sly look on his friend's face and it dawned on him. "Do you mean the—Danila, it is not how you think. She was only trying to get my attention, and I—wait, what were you doing with prostitutes anyway, Danila?" By then, the younger man had already deteriorated into a fit of laughter.

"I never…I never took you for the _type,_ Artyom," Danila gasped. "I thought I might bring it up. Scientific inquiry, you know."

"You've misunderstood," Artyom defended hastily. "I had only gone there to…" He trailed off and glanced sidelong at Pavel, the veritable explanation of why he'd met said prostitute, whose raised eyebrows and evocative smile dampened his righteous resolve to correct the events in Danila's mind. He looked skyward—to the city hanging over their heads—and felt himself turn red in misguided embarrassment. "Forget it," he yielded, hand clamped over his face in an effort to hide it.

Pavel raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, what you do with the prostitutes is none of my business. I stand by this."

Danila must not have laughed in a long time, because that set off another fit.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I am incredibly sorry for the huge delay! Agh! Okay, that was a little exaggerated. But this chapter is a little bit longer than the other ones-not that the act of writing it took longer than usual-but there are so many problems with this computer. It's older than me! It has this strange virus on it, too, so...well, let's hope that this account doesn't get hacked or something. Not that it will. Anyway.**

**I've been reading the online translation of Metro 2033. It's probably not the most accurate thing in the world, but I think the person (people?) translating it did their best. And it's a really good read. But Artyom isn't how I imagined him...probably because he's just a blank slate in the video game, huh. Plus, the writer had his own intentions. This is turning into an extended monologue. Enjoy! (if it's enjoyable...)**

There was not an all-encompassing love of the Metro.

Naturally, it was a given: some could recall what it was like before they became sewage rats, before they crowded into the damp darkness that once ran through with trains and daily commute. They could remember a life where air was not thick with the scent that was distinctly of the rails, where there were trees and otherwise ordinary things, now exotic and unknown by the children. These people, connected by the world they once inhabited, were older than those among them, but the strength and clarity by which half of them sustained the afterimages of their pasts shined through even their age.

Some resigned to the idea that this was their home now, even _warmed_ to it, no matter where else they had been born. Artyom was one of these people. He belonged below, as did many others, in a well-suited niche he had carved for himself. He had a home, friends, and responsibilities, much as he assumed any man or woman might have had thirty or sixty years ago.

Conversely, many still dreamed fitfully of Moscow, and perhaps, in those distant continents and countries, cities such as New York and Tokyo had their own vast underground societies, where their people dreamed of their respective losses. They could not resign to this new world, even though they managed to tolerate it. The notion nesting in their minds was this: _it is unnatural to live anywhere but the surface, and that is where I should be. _And on this idea, they rooted themselves. It was a dying philosophy, however, as its advocates died with it.

Some had never seen the decimated landscape painting the world beyond them, and they, too, were divided into those that accepted and those that rebelled, although the latter was the obvious minority. But it _was_ a sort of rebellion, wasn't it? Against the law of things? The safe and subtle guidelines tailored to the possible and the impossible? It could even be called inviting, then, the thrill of adventure, of discovering a world reduced to rubble and thriving with perilous wildlife.

There was a scale of curiosity, spanning from a look, a second, if only to know that there existed such a place—to an obsession, a lifetime, consumed. Artyom had once shared in a form of that morbid fascination, and the consequences it had on his life and the lives of others were unduly residual. Because of those moments of his childhood, he had done many things and met many people. He felt the impact of his excursion into the urban wasteland even now, as did many others.

He often mused, in vain, what would have happened, had he not joined his friends on their journey to see the Botanical Gardens?

* * *

"Pavel?" There was a hushed, inquisitive tone to Artyom's voice, but his friend did not seem to hear him. He opened his mouth to speak again, but then he heard the whispers of approaching bandits. They came from a distance of what sounded like twenty feet, but were clearly getting closer. Inwardly, he swore, as Pavel inched past the crumbling and stunted wall, their hiding place, their vantage point. Artyom tapped at his shoulder. When Pavel turned to look at him with confusion, Artyom shook his head. "Don't go."

"Why?" Pavel asked, nodding his head at the bandits, clearly nonchalant with their proximity. "They're vulnerable. Perfect opportunity."

Said perfect opportunities came into view as they rounded a corner. Only one lamp sat lit, and its glow hardly reached their boots in the oppressive darkness of the tight-knit halls and branching recesses. But it was quite enough.

"When we met, you warned me to stay in the dark," Artyom insisted. "What if they see you?"

"We happened to be in a gas chamber at the time. It was something of a necessity." Pavel grinned, but in the blackness it looked more like he bared his teeth. "What is the harm if they see me now?"

"A few bullets, I'm sure," Artyom retorted.

He rapped his fist on his chest. It made a very muted _thump._ "Do you hear that? That is the sound of a solid vest, my friend. And a few bullets, you say? Was that a wager?"

"Not a few bullets in your pocket, but in your head. If they can make it past your thick skull." Artyom stilled his breath when one bandit muttered, "What was that?" to his companions.

Pavel ducked his head and gave Artyom another grin, but this one spoke of triumph. They listened in silence for a moment: Pavel and Artyom to the bandits, and vice versa. The three bandits ducked their heads and searched behind boxes, in corners, through the multitude of rooms around them, lighting a spare lamp or two. Contrary to the hushed motions of most bandits in their hunts, these three were more clumsy, knocking their shoulders against doorways, their feet against broken glass.

When their pursuit edged nearer to them, Pavel motioned for Artyom to move backwards, in the direction from which they had come, through the doorway at their backs. They slid against the wall in tandem, Pavel removing his revolver, as the bandit bent around the corner, face silhouetted and featureless. If the bandit investigated further, together, they could—

Finding nothing wrong, the bandit who'd alerted the others slipped away, rejoined them, and sighed out, "It must have been my imagination."

At the liberating words, Artyom and Pavel set forward once again, though Artyom set himself ahead so as to prevent Pavel from jumping forward again. Forcefully setting a hand on the other's chest, Artyom peered around the corner.

The second bandit patted the other on the shoulder with a friendly, though indistinct, jaunt; the third, however, persisted in silence, arms crossing in irritation or apprehension. The quality of light left much to the imagination.

Though Artyom had no idea what the specifics of the previous conversation had been, the new one that then began between the two more talkative men had melancholy notes throughout, and, during the lull in Pavel's repartee, he caught portions of what they spoke of: _pointless, station,_and _doctor._As they spoke, they blew out the excess lamps, save one, and settled against the wall adjacent. This did not seem right to Artyom—were they relaxed enough to dismiss any thought of ambush? The tone of their words said otherwise.

Artyom would have puzzled over the bandits' peculiarities longer, if not for Pavel, who had waited the compulsory moment before he nudged Artyom's shoulder. "Arguing gets us nowhere. If we work together and we work _fast,_nothing can go wrong."

Artyom could not think of a strong counter to this line of persuasion. Artyom raised his head and looked out to the bandits, squinting at them, if only to focus on their manner. The talk between the two of them, and the mute nature of the third, was interesting enough, but, as they crowded closer aside the lamp, the flickering light thrown farther, their newborn appearances proved to be much more compelling.

They were a small group of three, of course, being the ones to keep an eye out. Perhaps they were the only ones; perhaps there were others resting. If they truly were alone, then fear proved to keep them all alert and watching. Although the reports they'd been given by word of mouth only alluded to two thieves, there was clearly a third, and there could have been more they had yet to see.

They looked sick and malnourished, and carried no guns, unlike most bandits he had come across over the months. It seemed Pavel would not be shot at today. In fact, the only weapons they had were knives, and they were short and blunt, held inexpertly in their palms. Even their armors were worn and littered with holes—they had probably pried them from corpses. Their faces were covered in dirt and light markings of wounds, as though scuffed, scraped—but beneath all the layers, they were younger than he had thought or even suspected. Faces overcast with shadows and left deprived of sleep, they looked hollow-cheeked and empty, and extremely, undeniably pitiful.

Pavel kept his eyes trained on Artyom's brooding expression, one he realized cropped up quite often when he fell into his patterns of thought. He rubbed a hand down his face at the implication and sidled around the hand holding him in place, edging forward. "This is not a matter of caution, is it?"

"No, it is not," Artyom agreed. He looked back to his friend. "We were not explicitly ordered to kill. They, in turn, have not killed anyone. They only seem to want supplies, and that is all they have taken from the stations. What if—"

"If that is all they want, why didn't they ask to be taken in, instead of steal? We are not all animals, and…" Pavel trailed off, having followed his line of sight; his mouth flattened in surprise or dismay. Often, Artyom could not follow the emotions of his friend, as had been apparent the day he met him. Pavel had first pretended to be frightened into submission, then he boldly killed two men, then he, rather negligibly, gave Artyom a knife and jumped down a hole in the wall. He had always been an array of emotions strewn about, some false and others genuine.

Catching himself staring dully in recollection, Artyom nearly hit himself in exasperation. He always became maddeningly philosophical when he let himself think. "Maybe they were afraid of being denied entry," Artyom whispered, reviving his previous train of thought. "At Exhibition, Pavel, I was often standing guard in the tunnels around the stations, and I was told to shoot at everything that moved. Rats, nosalises, and people alike, unless they had been authorized. This was when we lived in fear of the…the Dark Ones, but I would not expect a warm welcome, either, if I were a stranger."

Pavel let out a breath. There was always a lens of unreality, a fog of a dream-like quality, where murder was concerned. But children—he had never, to his knowledge, ever killed a child, and he never, in the current state of things, wanted to. Even killers could impose some form of boundaries when they came to understand the full extent of the facts, much as they could forget them. "So," he ventured, "do we confront them on this subject? Talk to them?"

"If you are willing to listen."

The voice was gruff, considerably older than the rest of his companions. Artyom caught his breath; Pavel sighed. "Turn. Slowly. If you have any weapons, drop them." They did as he asked, knives and pistols and otherwise splayed carefully before them, kneeling as they were on the ground. The man stepped forward and forced the weapons away with the toe of his boot. Artyom could hear the immediacy of the other bandits, their whispers having ceased, their presence to their side and in the corners of his eyes. An unlit lamp clanked heavily onto the concrete in front of Artyom's face, the smell of a freshly doused fire coming from it. Cautiously, so as not to startle the men surrounding them, Artyom glanced up.

His face was lined with hardships which lent the qualities of age, but he could have been no older than forty. His hair was a stark and scraggly salt and pepper, lined with dirt and sweat. Each breath came labored; that paired with the sheen of his skin and the strain with which he spoke could mean one or more of many things, stress, sickness, and injury being the most prominent.

"You two…where do you come from?" His words were quiet and arduous. He, unlike the bandits they saw previously, did, in fact, have a gun—a shotgun—but it weighed heavily in his arms, which trembled as he lowered it. Lifting one hand, he wiped at the sweat building at his forehead.

Pavel spoke up. "We are from the Spartan Order."

Artyom didn't question Pavel on this—but he wondered, briefly, on where Pavel truly aligned himself. He was a friend and an ally of Artyom's in every way, but he had by no means revoked his Communist beliefs, only the inhumane methods of those who popularly endorsed them. Did he think of himself as a fellow Spartan now, only a little set apart? Or did he see himself as Red? Was he one over the other, or both equally?

Artyom had never brought up the matter with Pavel, both out of avoidance of conflict and the idea that it was not important, it did not need to be brought out into the open; Pavel did the same. But he did wonder on it, if it would one day _become_ significant, and if Pavel himself had an answer.

Likewise, he shied away from mentioning or questioning Pavel's manner with which he dispatched enemies. Artyom was no stranger to killing, no stranger to violence and brute force and the tide of strength rushing through him when a gun aimed to kill or a corpse fell at his feet—but he avoided the act of it and the urge, the impulse, as best as he could. In truth, he had no qualms with Pavel's methods, his _manner,_ but simply had questions in general, ones he felt ashamed to ask of Pavel or, granted, anyone. Was Artyom more human for restraining the instinct to kill, or was he more of a beast for having the inclination at all?

Before the man could get more information out of Pavel, he started coughing, dropping the shotgun with the force of it. One of the bandits rushed to his aid. Artyom realized with surprise that it was a girl; the crude, boyish haircut and the bulk of her armor hid this well, but he had not caught sight of her face before, or heard her voice, as she had gone unspeaking while the others talked.

"Pape," she said, stroking at his back. Worry pulled faintly at her lips as she bit them. "You need to calm down."

He waved off her attention as prideful fathers are wont to do. Almost unbidden, the thought of his stepfather came to Artyom's mind, but the similarity left his head when the girl turned to him, dark eyes tired but accusing. "What do you want?"

Tentatively, Artyom replied, as Pavel did: "We are from the Spartan Order. We were sent after those stealing supplies from the neighboring stations—but we have no intention of harming you." His gaze flicked unintentionally towards the man. "Or your father."

She didn't laugh or shout or express any emotion at this; her face was remarkably blank. Perhaps she had been taught, or she had strove to master the act herself. Instead of displaying her thoughts, she looked at her father's head of hair and kneaded a thumb absently at his shoulder, fingers splayed over the weathered vest. She said, "If your intention is not to harm, is it to help?"

"If the circumstances allow it," Pavel answered wryly. "But we are more than willing." His eyes flicked almost imperceptibly to Artyom, as though seeking some sort of confirmation that he was handling this correctly. Seeing him completely absorbed in the situation at hand, not two inches from him, Pavel felt a bit ridiculous and cleared his throat, redirecting his focus back at the woman—or girl, it seemed. Even younger than the boys, she had to be only fifteen or sixteen…to think, he had almost killed her. He smiled at her thinly, if only to distract himself. Artyom was quite the influence; already, he imagined, he was becoming as pensive…

"We…" The man inhaled heavily, stifling another cough, and brought a quaking hand up to lay it over his daughter's. "Nata, tell them what they want to know."

She hesitated, but only for a second. Crossing her arms, she said, "We were with a group of people leaving the Nazis. There must have been a dozen of us, and more had left before and after we had gone. It was an exodus. They found new things to consider impure, the products of inferior mutations. But it was not the standards they held that drove us away; Papa was worried about the environment, the tension and conflict among the people. My father and I went with the group in the hopes to reach a different station, it did not matter which. Akim and Rurik—" She nodded to the boys standing off beside them. "They were with the group as well.

"For several days, we were fine. We had made progress. But we did not get far before my father became sick." She paused, mouth twisting sourly. "There was only _one_ man with us who had any medicine, but he was not a doctor of any sort. He only sold them. We could not get any diagnosis from him, and had no money to pay for his stock. I—" Nata looked down. "I did not know what to do, so I…I tried to steal the medicine, when he had fallen asleep. But the others caught me, they wanted to leave me in the tunnels. Papa chose to get off with me.

"We began walking and eventually found Akim and Rurik resting ahead. The group had been attacked by bandits and scavenged, the corpses thrown overboard and the trolleys taken. They pretended to be among the dead and emerged unscathed. Of course, _what luck,_I thought, but how unfortunate." She smiled harshly, and it finally occurred to Artyom what seemed familiar about her; she reminded him of _Anna,_ of all people. Her appearance, though similar, was only second to her personality, which fell strangely in line with the daughter of Miller.

Her father prompted her with a prod. She took a breath and went on. "When we found the next station, they were unfriendly. They would not let us in. I didn't know how far the next station would be, so I convinced Akim to sneak in with me while Rurik stayed behind with my father. We stole medicine, food, water, anything we could find and carry. But nothing would make him better. The station afterward would not . We continued on and found this abandoned area—no stations here. But there are many doors, and we haven't searched all of them yet."

In the short silence that followed, before Artyom could speak up, the man said, "I think it's pneumonia." He coughed again, but quickly oppressed it and gathered himself. "Twenty years ago, it was much less fatal, that I know. It could clear up in weeks. Whether or not it'll kill me now, I _don't_ know." A rumbling cough finally came to the surface, and he was unable to stop it this time.

Nata's words gained speed. "If you are…willing," she began, echoing Pavel's words, "then any help would be appreciated." She seemed to want to add more, but she swallowed the words and stared intently at the two of them.

"We can take you back to our station," offered Artyom. "We have medicine there, and doctors—if it can be treated, your father will recover there."

"How much will they ask for?" she countered.

"If they ask for anything, I will try to convince them otherwise. And if I cannot, I will handle the fee. I am not short of bullets—my pay for this excursion should be more than enough." Artyom looked, after a pause, at Pavel, who had since hunched forward and rested his chin in his hands. He gave Artyom a lopsided half-grin, which he took to mean was both humor and commendment.

"What will you tell them about the stealing?" asked a separate voice. "Will they arrest us?"

"Akim," whispered Nata. Whether she spoke in a tone of admonishment or surprise, Artyom couldn't tell.

"It is not so bad as murder," Pavel suggested with a small shrug, looking up and over at the boy. "And anything that is stolen can be paid in kind. You give some sort of service, you volunteer for a job—it is more productive than being arrested, in my opinion. We cannot guarantee a lack of consequences, but, in our experience, little ones are not treated as harshly."

"Little ones!" muttered the remaining boy, who was unmistakably Rurik. "We're all far from little."

"Well," Pavel said, waving a hand. "You are not so tall, either, eh?"

The imminent bickering was prevented by a sharp cough—one markedly more deliberate, Artyom thought. "Come on, then," ordered the man with his gravelly voice. He gave Nata a warning look when she tried to relinquish the heavy shotgun from his hand, shifting it to other without preamble. "Stand up."

They reached for their guns, tucking them into their holsters, setting away their knives, before doing so. Artyom looked to everyone, who looked resolutely back at him, though Akim twitched at the sight of their arsenal and hid his distrust in a downward gaze. "We came with a railcar," Artyom informed. "It might be a tight fit, but there should be enough room. It is outside, in the tunnel—we can lead you to it. If there is anything you want to bring with you, move quickly."

There were no objections, but the only motivated man was Nata's father, who, breathing difficult as it was, started off before everyone else, taking nothing with him. Nata helped him along while Akim ran back to scoop the lamp off the floor. He returned to lead them from a little ahead, the yellow tinge of light coating the variety of items around them. Rurik hefted a small rucksack off the floor and slung it over his shoulder, snatching a notebook from the ground beside it and tucking it into a pocket. They set off, back through the network of rooms and hallways.

They passed trash cans, hemp bags, dead rats and worse before they found the doorway leading out of the maze and the things that occupied it. The tunnel, wide and dark, opened before them like a gaping mouth. It was black on either side. "This way," Pavel directed, starting off to the left. His flashlight clicked on, and, with its introduction, Artyom nearly did the same out of habit—but Akim's lamp did much of the work, and so he refrained.

Before the silence swallowed them, and the tunnel with it, Rurik asked, "What station are you from?"

"Exhibition," Artyom said readily. "That is where I grew up."

"But we came from Polis," Pavel amended. "It is where we are given orders."

"Which station do you spend the most time in, then?"

"Curious, aren't you? It is always like that with children," Pavel joked.

Rurik angled his head, as though in disbelief. Before he could rejoin, Artyom spoke in the hopes of getting between them. "I spend the most time in the tunnels. More so recently." He smiled with the thought of his home station. "When I was younger, I mostly stayed in the one. But…many things brought me out."

Rurik looked brightly at him, absorbing the information, but, a little resentfully, he looked sidelong at Pavel.

"Since you want to know, I'll tell you," Pavel relented, scratching at the back of his head. "Same as my friend here, d'Artagnan. I go where he goes." He peered ahead of them, distracted for search of the railcar, when he realized what he'd said and blinked at Artyom. But he hadn't been paying attention. He, much as Pavel had been, looked questioningly down the tunnel.

"What sort of name is d'Artagnan?" Rurik inquired, half to himself and half to Pavel, when Nata interrupted.

"How much farther is the railcar?" asked Nata, voice bitterly deficient in emotion. She turned to face them, the shorn black wisps of her hair flat against her skull beneath the cap she wore, before her gaze flitted back before them. Her eyes were sharp, but they saw nothing. "Have we gone the wrong way?"

"No," Artyom said. The facts pulled themselves together in a decidedly unpleasant and unlucky way. "We should have passed it by now. Put out the light."

Akim swiftly snuffed the lamp, his eyes now black with what could only be called unease.

"Shit," cursed Pavel, switching off his flashlight. He lowered his voice. "Do you think whoever took it is nearby?"

"Maybe." He motioned for everyone to be very quiet. As always, more memories came to Artyom's mind, of the day he met Pavel—_pretend you're a little fucking mouse_—curses and all. The precision with which he killed, and the humor he could instill in every problem, every obstacle. That was always how the memories came—they washed over him, bombarded him, of his childhood, his mother, his life.

He came back to himself with the awareness that everyone was staring at him for instruction. With a hushed exhalation, he cleared his head. "We'll have to go this way—it's the way we came, and it's the way we'll get back, short of taking a longer route."

Pavel looked to the sick man. "Try not to cough," he advised.

Artyom carried on. "If we see a railcar, ours or otherwise, we get in it and leave. If we don't, we walk. If we see someone, stay in the shadows and be very quiet. Pavel and I will do what we can."

At this, Pavel looked between the somber-faced teenagers and Artyom as though debating something. Nata's father raised his eyebrows—both of them, possibly incapable of just the one—and again wiped at his face, trying to remove the sweat on both of his nose and forehead.

"What is it?" Artyom tilted his head at Pavel's incisive gaze, his pale green eyes analyzing his.

Glancing indecisively at him, he intoned quietly, "It's, ah, nothing. Let's go!" He nodded his head to get his point across and started out first, boots tapping almost noiselessly at the layer of dust and dirt lathered over and in between the metal rails.

Artyom looked frankly at the others, if only to make sure they were ready. Nata nodded her affirmation and the man gestured weakly with a dry grin as if to say, _get a move on._

Motioning for them to stay close, Artyom set off after his friend, feeling for his night vision goggles. He had almost left them at his room in Polis—he had so many rooms now, and so many things. But, by a little good fortune and pessimism, he had brought them, much as he hoped he would not need them, would not need to see what was in the dark. The others fell into step close at his heels.

**I tried to catch the fog the other day, but I mist. Hahaha...cough-cough. I have to bring "one clean joke" to class tomorrow, and that seemed the most satisfactory...now that this story has sufficiently distracted you, maybe the review box suddenly looks really appealing...**


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